Doll of Winter Garden
by Macabre Melancholia
Summary: Ivan Braginski, a maker of dolls, has achieved the blasphemous and impossible: bring a doll to life. Elements of KOKORO and Evilious Chronicle's Clockwork Lullabies in it, written for trial run of the Hetalia Fanfiction contest on Facebook.


**A/N: **This is merely a story written for the sake of the Hetalia Fanfiction Contest on Facebook, Season 0. In other words, the trial run.

I have based this on the Vocaloid song [Girl of Miniature Garden: Clockwork Lullaby 2] by mothy/Akuno-P, and Kokoro by Toraboruta-P

Hetalia and Vocaloid HATSUNE MIKU and KAGAMINE RIN software, and contents of said songs belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz, Crypton Future Media, Mothy/Akuno-P and Toraboruta-P respectively. I own nothing, other than dreams of purchasing the English MIKU.

* * *

><p>Ivan Braginski smiled. Finally, he has completed his masterpiece! Surely no other work can be compared to his.<p>

A doll-maker by trade, he has crafted almost every doll imaginable- delicate, dainty little porcelain dolls, marionettes, Matryoshka dolls, dolls in likeness of people. Yet, his latest piece of work astounds even him.

A doll, similar to his features, but still noticeably different from him. Intricate mechanism and clockwork were his organs, and materials of the best quality made up the doll's exterior. Real human hair on his head, of a pleasant pale sand-like blonde colouration. Violet eyes, like his creator, but of a more pale, softer tone, not quite as harsh as the maker's sharp violets.

Hollow, ball-jointed body, the intricacies of mechanism not yet moving. A fellow doll-maker, a Japanese man, had studied his blueprints of the mechanism and declared it one of the most complicated _karakuri_ systems he had seen. Karakuri, such a pretty word, befitting his own creation.

Master Braginski did not scrimp on the doll's clothing, too. Nothing but the softest fabric and finest cotton for his masterpiece.

There is still something missing, though. He had asked his English and Romanian acquaintances for assistance in this particular step.

His doll, it will be special. It shall live.

Imagine, a living doll! A miniature of a human, moving, speaking and behaving just like the ones of flesh and blood. Something new, something original. Something forbidden.

Ivan knew that he should not play God; that it was not his right to bequeath life onto other things.

He did not care.

He didn't care to ask his contacts whether it was really giving life to a vessel, or a form of necromancy. Maybe he was instead giving his own life for the doll?

He put some grain into the doll, along with a lock of his hair, which was already incorporated into the doll's hair. he did everything according to the instructions, and waited.

An ecstatic grin graced the features of Ivan Braginski as he watched his creation's eyes start to blink open, as if waking from a long sleep.

"Good morning," the Russian doll-maker greeted. The doll looked back at him with his eyes of glass.

"Your name is..."

* * *

><p><em>Creation Records<em>

_Today, I have succeeded in my seemingly futile quest. Tino is now a reality. _

_Written by the Doll-Maker Ivan Braginski, on an unspecified date._

* * *

><p>The size of a child of five years, Tino was taught to play the piano. His creator's pride and joy, they were often heard playing a duet of the violin and piano beside the warm fire during the long and harsh winters. Locking Tino away in a miniature paradise full of trinkets and curios, Ivan did not let the outside world know of the doll's forbidden existence, and the blonde doll was equally foreign to the outside world.<p>

But it was all right, for as long as his father was here, he would be safe. He could sing, and thump out tunes on the pianoforte to his heart's content.

_I do not know of the world outside  
><em>_I am ignorant of the ways of people  
><em> _But if it is what you wish for  
>I shall continue to sing for you.<em>

* * *

><p>Ivan smiled in a childish way when he read the news, but it soon turned to a worried frown.<p>

"War," Ivan muttered.

* * *

><p>He shouldn't have played God.<p>

His existence was unnatural.

Their tale is only but one part of a tapestry, a story in a series of many.

Come, let us look on as this farce we call 'life' continue.

_End...? _


End file.
